


A Higher Calling

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Branding, Cockwarming, Collars, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, M/M, Obedience, Overstimulation, Praise Kink, Service, mafia!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:49:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23479486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: For the SPN Masquerade challenge on Livejournal, #6, The Waltz of the Wicked.Prompt:18 year old Jensen's had a secret crush on JDM for years, and JDM in turn is actually pretty fond of both the kid's fearless tenacity and stupidly pretty face. It's just a shame Jeff's the head of an organised crime syndicate and probably the most dangerous man anyone's ever likely to meet.Jeff doesn't particularly want to fuck up Jensen's life, but when Jensen's family get themselves into bad debt, Jensen sees an opportunity and offers himself instead of payment.Jeff doesn't have to think very hard before agreeing. He may be sweet on the boy, and wouldn't intentionally harm him, but he's sure as hell going to get his money's worth. Hell, he might even keep him. Jeff always did enjoy pampering his pets.
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jeffrey Dean Morgan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 87
Collections: Anonymous





	A Higher Calling

_Jensen’s first memory of Mr. Morgan is hazy, like a dream._

_Jensen was young, maybe...twelve? He knows it was at his parents’ restaurant, at the table in the corner—the one with the stained glass lamp and the doily under the glass and the fresh roses in a vase. It’s the only table set up like that—his mother told him once it was for the fine dining crowd, but no one ever sits there except Mr. Morgan._

_Mr. Morgan was impeccably dressed that day. High shine shoes, pinstripe jacket perfectly fitted over his broad shoulders. Dark hair and beard trimmed neatly. Jensen had never seen anyone like that before._

_Someone always came in with him and sat at the small table just behind him as he ate. They’d have a glass of water and watch the room without _looking.__

_It was all so foreign and intriguing. Jensen was in awe from the start, he knows he was. How could anyone resist that power, that kind and focused gaze zeroed in on them? And Jensen felt it every time he went to serve the man. He learned quickly that Mr. Morgan liked the Cabernet, two glasses, from a fresh bottle that was opened in front of him. He ate fish on Fridays, but it wasn’t a Catholic thing, it was because the fish was freshest, then. And Jensen always made sure he got the freshest of the day’s delivery._

_Jensen wasn’t wait staff, not until he was fifteen, but even when he was just bussing the tables, Mr. Morgan was kind to him. He’d ask him about school, about the restaurant, about his family and his friends. He always seemed interested in what Jensen had to say, and that was rare from any adult that wasn’t his family. He’d tuck a few bills into Jensen’s hand as he left, and leave the waitstaff a generous tip as well._

_Jensen was too young, that first time, to know who Mr. Morgan was. _What_ he was._

_By the time Jensen was waiting tables himself, he’d been warned. He knew that Mr. Morgan was powerful, but not exactly on the right side of the law. That he protected people, yes, but that people who crossed him disappeared. That criminal activity rose and fell by his word. That everyone called him “Sir” out of respect, but also fear._

_But still, Jensen rushed to the restaurant every Friday after school, made sure his slacks were pressed under his apron, his shirt was tidy and crisp._

_He didn’t really examine that extra effort until much later._

_Mr. Morgan came in with someone else. One of the Sheppards from the department store - he’d graduated a few years ago but was still in town, and now he’d found his way _here_. To Mr. Morgan’s table._

_The guy watched Mr. Morgan carefully from under lowered eyelashes. He wore wide cuffs on his wrists, carved with the crown symbol that matched the one on Mr. Morgan’s tie tack and cuff links._

_Occasionally Mr. Morgan gifted him with a small smile across the table, and Jensen’s jaw went tight. “More wine?” he asked, knowing Mr. Morgan had already had his two glasses, interrupting anyhow._

_Mr. Morgan turned that smile on him and the tension flowed away like water._

_“Thank you, Jensen. Not just now.” The man reached out and touched his arm. “You’re always so attentive, I hope you know how much I appreciate that.”_

_Jensen stumbled off, a bundle of nerves—sick and too warm and nauseous._

_And then Jensen got a girlfriend, and learned what jealousy felt like, and realized it was terrifyingly familiar._

_And just like that, the memory of Mr. Morgan and Mr. Sheppard made him warm in a whole new way, and he knew he was in trouble._

* * *

Jensen’s father gets sick first—heart disease that makes him weak. If he doesn’t slow down and take care of himself, he’ll be dead within the year.

So, halfway through his senior year Jensen drops out of school and starts working at the restaurant full time. He puts in fifty, seventy hours a week, despite his mother constantly telling him to go home. He will not let his parents down, and he knows she needs the help. His brother and sister come by after school to help out, and, together, they all make it work. 

A year later, his mother gets sick. Breast cancer. The cost of treatment is going to be far more than they can afford with what the restaurant brings in. Probably more than the restaurant will net them if they sell.

His father tells him not to worry, they’ve made it through tough times. His mother pats him on the shoulder and promises they’ll be all right.

But they’re lying. He knows they are, because he’s been paying for deliveries for a year now, and he sees the bills that come in from the radiologist, the endocrinologist, the oncologist, all the other ists, and it’s already more than he can see fitting into their current budget.

* * *

“Mr. Morgan will see you now,” the young secretary states, gesturing Jensen through the door to her left.

Jensen rubs his hands on his khakis and rolls his shoulders back before stepping through.

“Jensen!” Mr. Morgan greets jovially, grabbing Jensen’s hand in a strong handshake and gripping his shoulder with his other hand. “So good to see you. What can I do for you, son?” Mr. Morgan gestures him to a wing chair and then leans against the heavy desk just in front of it, close enough that Jensen imagines he feels the heat of the man’s body. 

Jensen struggles to remember why he’s there. 

“Hello, Sir. Thank you for seeing me. I…” He rubs a hand through his hair and then tucks his clenched fists in his lap. “You may know that my parents have experienced some difficult times.”

Mr. Morgan nods sagely. “Yes, very sad, very sad. I’ve known you all a long time. I really wish the best for you. I do hope you’ll tell me if there’s any way I can help.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Actually, you see, I was hoping maybe I could—you could—help us out.” He rushes on before he can really think about what a massive mistake this is. “My mother will need treatment and we need to hire people for the restaurant...we’d pay you back and I’m willing to work for you, Sir, whatever you need. For as long as you think is fair.”

Something slips in Mr. Morgan’s expression. The jovial smile thins to something darker, the sparkle of his eyes turns to a predatory glint and he doesn’t bother to hide the way he looks Jensen up and down.

Jensen’s chest goes tight, his whole body suddenly charged with anticipation.

“What did you have in mind?” Mr. Morgan asks, voice low and a little rough.

Jensen swallows. “Anything, Sir. I mean that. Whatever you want to do...me to do for you.”

Mr. Morgan watches him, eyes narrowed, for a long moment. Then he pushes off the edge of the desk abruptly. “Take off your shirt,” he says, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable request.

Jensen clamps his jaw around the questions that bubble up. If he’s offering himself for this deal, he knows obedience is going to be a requirement. The man must be used to snapping his fingers and having people come running.

With only a brief pause Jensen stands, immediately unbuttoning and shrugging out of his shirt and then pulling his undershirt over his head. He hangs them both neatly over one arm and tries to keep his face blank when he looks to Mr. Morgan for further instruction. His heart pounds in his ears, his stomach rolls, his hands shake. 

He tries to be still, to look relaxed even as every muscle cries out in protest.

“Good,” Mr. Morgan says, mouth smooth and jovial once more. He holds out a hand and Jensen hands the shirts over wordlessly.

Mr. Morgan moves around behind the desk and drops them in a drawer before coming back to lean against the desk.

“You’re very obedient,” Mr. Morgan observes. He leans forward and grips Jensen’s chin gently, turning his head from side to side. Jensen schools his breathing but can’t stop goosebumps from rising on his skin.

“Yes, Sir,” Jensen manages finally.

“A hard worker.” He releases Jensen’s chin and then paces around him like a predator.

“I try, Sir.” Jensen puts his hands behind his back and grips his wrist in an attempt to stop the trembling.

Mr. Morgan watches him in silence, then turns abruptly to walk around the desk again and retrieves Jensen’s shirts. “You can put these back on,” he says quietly. “I had to be sure.” He gestures vaguely at Jensen’s chest. It takes Jensen far too long to realize that he’s suggesting he might have been wearing a wire.

Mr. Morgan trails a quick finger along Jensen’s collarbone before handing his shirts back. “I think we can find an arrangement that works well for both of us,” he says. “Come by the house on Monday morning, all right? Seven am, sharp. You know where it is?”

Everyone does. Everyone in their little town, and everyone in a hundred mile radius. “Yes, Sir,” is all Jensen says.

“Good.” Mr. Morgan strides back around the desk and sits down at his computer, ignoring Jensen completely.

Jensen puts his clothes back on and leaves quietly, a million questions churning through his head, an ache in his gut, and a tingling along his skin that’s going to require some alone time.

* * *

Jensen plans to work through the evening. He tries to send food home with his brother while he stays to help Ty with the rush, but Josh just shakes his head. “No, mom wants us all home.”

Fear runs through Jensen like lightning. “Uh, okay. Yeah. No problem, I’ll be home soon, then.”

He follows up with Ty on the way out. “I have to run, you got everything?”

Ty raises an eyebrow. “Of course, go on, get out of here.”

Jensen starts taking his jacket off as Ty continues.

“Hey, thanks for taking care of things with Tom, they’re delivering tomorrow.”

Jensen looks up, confused. “What’s that?”

“You paid the produce bill, right? Tom’s having one of the boys drop it off tomorrow.”

Jensen’s mind races. “Yeah, right. Yeah.” It’s all moving faster than he’d imagined. He wonders if maybe it’s something else—coincidence, somehow. He shakes his head. “See you tomorrow,” he calls on his way out.

* * *

“I know you must all be worried. It’s not often we all get to have dinner together these days, is it?” 

They sit around the table and watch her expectantly. 

“I start radiation treatment tomorrow—”

The table explodes, Josh and Kenzie talking over each other in excitement. Their mother just holds up her hands.

“I know this is a surprise, but the doctor called and let me know that there’s a grant program that they can use to get me treated. We don’t have to sell the restaurant. It’s going to be all right,” she says softly, and then she excuses herself abruptly, eyes shining. “I’ll just go get the bread.”

“Can you believe it?” Kenzie asks, breathless.

Jensen pats her hand. “It’s great news.” 

His dad nods approvingly across the table and smiles.

* * *

A large bearded man, more bodyguard than butler, greets Jensen at the door and leads him into the kitchen. Mr. Morgan sits there calmly, dressed in a three piece suit and sipping a cup of coffee.

He smiles broadly. “Jensen, so good to see you. Can Cliff get you some coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee would be great, Sir,” he says, wondering if he should sit or stand, what to say.

“Certainly. Cliff is going to check you over first, and then I hope you’ll come have a seat with me. I don’t need to be in the office until nine.”

Jensen nods uncertainly. 

Cliff sets the coffee next to Mr. Morgan and then turns his imposing figure to Jensen. “Arms straight out, please.”

Jensen complies and Cliff runs hands over him—clinical but very thorough—then follows up with a blinking scanner. 

Cliff nods once and then turns, pulling the chair out and waiting. Jensen sits gingerly, equal parts terrified and intrigued.

Cream and sugar are in small dishes next to the cup and Jensen prepares his coffee with intense concentration, looking up only after he’s stirred it thoroughly, the sound of the spoon deafening in the quiet room.

When he looks up, Mr. Morgan is smiling softly. “Jensen.”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Would you agree that I’ve met my part of our agreement?”

Jensen licks his lips. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Shall we discuss your part, then?”

Jensen nods, and Mr. Morgan waits. “Yes. Yes, Sir.”

“Wonderful. What did you have in mind, then?”

“_Me_?” Somehow he hadn’t been expecting that. “Uhhh...whatever you need, Sir. I…” His mind races as he tries to think of things he can help with, other than the obvious, which he isn’t entirely ready to offer up if Mr. Morgan isn’t asking. “I can cook. I can clean. Finances.”

Mr. Morgan grins at that and Jensen flushes. 

“I mean, maybe not that. For you.” He stumbles on. “I can...I can...I can keep your kitchen, Sir, make your favorite meals, I can fix things, some carpentry…” He’s feeling desperate, suddenly. It’s not enough, he _knows_ it’s not enough. “Sir, anything. 24/7, I’m all yours, okay? Whatever you need.”

Mr. Morgan leans back, gaze intense. “You say that, but I need to know you’re serious. You’ll be moving in. You won’t work at the restaurant anymore—I’ll need you here. You’ll be permitted to visit your family, of course, but only if I don’t require your services. Our contract will be for a full year, and I will be your first priority in that time. Do you understand?”

Jensen shivers. “Yes, Sir.”

“Take a few days. Think it over. If you agree, everything changes for you, Jensen. I’ll expect your answer by Wednesday evening. Six PM.”

Jensen feels the anger rise, his jaw tighten—he barely understands where it’s coming from. Having Mr. Morgan _doubt_ him is unacceptable. He has all the power, is he really pretending to give Jensen a choice? Suggesting that he would choose his own freedom over his _family?_ “I don’t _need_ until Wednesday evening, Sir. I’m all yours. My answer won’t change.”

“Really? Even after you tell your family?”

The question strikes a nerve—his family will be worried for him. It’s why he didn’t tell them what he was planning—he doesn’t want to add to their concerns. But this _is_ the solution. It’s already made a massive difference. What is a year of his life against that? 

“Yes, Sir. Even then. I can start today. I would only ask, Sir, that you allow me to assist in hiring new staff at the restaurant.”

One eyebrow goes up. “That I’ll be paying for?”

Jensen refuses to be cowed. Surely his servitude is worth more than that to a man who can easily pay his mother’s medical bills and the restaurant’s debts.

_He isn’t. He isn’t worth it._

No. He will _make_ himself worth it. He will serve in ways no one else ever has. He lifts his chin. “Yes, Sir. I can move in by noon. What can I bring with me?”

Mr. Morgan’s smile is broad. “Bring whatever you like. I’ll be sure we have a place to store it. You won’t need clothes or furniture unless you’d like to bring some along for sentimental reasons. Those will be provided.” He gets up and touches Jensen’s shoulder briefly. “Cliff will help you with your things. We’ll speak again this evening.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jensen says to his retreating back. Then he looks back at his coffee and numbly realizes it’s empty. He doesn’t remember drinking it.

* * *

They’re alone when Mr. Morgan comes to him again. Cliff’s had him wait in a small den. Relativity speaking, small. Still bigger than their living room at home.

At his parent’s house. Not his home anymore.

There’s no table between them this time. Jensen can hear the pendulum of the grandfather clock behind him, timing his breaths. 4 clicks in. 4 clicks out. 

Mr. Morgan watches him calmly, a tumbler of whiskey swirling slowly in his long fingers. Jensen finds himself staring and then looks down at his own hands, tangled in his lap. Worrying against each other.

“Jensen,” Mr. Morgan says quietly.

“Yes, Sir?”

“You understand this isn’t a standard summer job, don’t you?”

One eyebrow is raised in question.

“Yes, Sir.”

“When you say you’re here for me, when you give me free reign...I’m not known for my restraint. You’re a very beautiful young man.”

“Th-thank you, Sir.”

“If you go through with this, I own you. Completely. You understand?”

Jensen looks him in the eye. “I do.”

Mr. Morgan nods sharply. “Good.” He leans back in his chair, a lush wingback. “Everyone in my household wears my mark. You may have seen it. A tattoo, or a collar. A bracelet. A brand. What would you like?”

He’s seen it. Cliff has a crown tattooed on the inside of his wrist. The idea makes his arm itch. Belonging to this man should sound far more terrifying than it does. Maybe that rush across his skin is fear, but it feels a lot more like something else entirely.

“You own me, right?” he asks quietly. “You decide.”

Mr. Morgan smiles broadly, that sweet smile that sparks in his eyes and transforms his face. “Oh, Jensen. You are such a temptation.” He takes a sip of whiskey before he leans forward and takes Jensen’s chin in his fingers. “I want to test your conviction. Call for a brand, something you can never take off.” His voice is a low purr.

He drops the hand. “But that wouldn’t be fair, or true. Those are for the people in my service for life. And you only owe me a year. So, despite your eagerness to prove yourself, Jensen, my mark won’t mar that perfect skin of yours.”

He gets up and goes to one of the many shelves, lined with books and wooden boxes, tokens of broad travels and expensive, impeccable taste. 

He takes down one of the boxes and sits back down, opening it so that both he and Jensen can see the leather collar it reveals. It’s about two inches wide—no mistaking it for jewelry—and has a wide buckle with a padlock on it. Not a showy one, either. The clasp is thick enough that he’d need machinery to get it off without a key. The crown, the same one he saw on Cliff’s wrist, is engraved in the leather, far too large to hide or minimize. He will truly be the property of Mr. Morgan. 

“Are you ready?”

Jensen nods.

Mr Morgan gestures to the thickly carpeted floor between them, and Jensen folds out of his chair and onto his knees. This is what he’s been waiting for. This is what he’s known it was going to be—what he couldn’t offer but knew was the only thing he really had that Mr. Morgan didn’t already have.

The leather is warm against his skin. Butter soft on the inside, pinching the slightest bit against the bend of his neck. He straightens automatically as Mr. Morgan buckles it snug against his skin and locks the padlock with a deafening click. Jensen looks up slightly, just in time to see Mr. Morgan slide a thin chain with a key on it over his head and tuck it inside his white dress shirt.

“The collar is lined with suede for your comfort,” Mr. Morgan tells him, “So you won’t be able to wear it in water. If you wish to use the pool or the shower, you’ll come to me just before so I can remove it, and as soon as you’re finished, so I can replace it. Do you understand?”

Jensen nods and feels the pinch of the collar again. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Come with me.” He gets up with little warning, and Jensen is left scrambling to his feet to follow Mr. Morgan’s long strides around the corner and up the stairs to the second floor.

“Your things have been put in place here, I’m sure Cliff showed you.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jensen says as Mr. Morgan sweeps a hand at the room they’d put his stuff in earlier.

“You’ve noticed, I’m sure, that there is no bed.”

“Yes, Sir,” he confirms quietly, waiting for the final bit of information, the final claim. Excitement and fear war in his stomach, but most of it seems to be anticipation—he’s on the brink, at last, about to find out Mr. Morgan’s true intent for him.

“This is where you’ll be sleeping,” Mr Morgan says at last, reaching the large room at the end of the hall. The bed is huge, covered in a thick comforter of blue silk, a white blanket covering the foot of it, and a full, sturdy canopy overhead. Jensen can’t help but smile, just a tiny bit.

“You have a choice,” Mr. Morgan tells him. “You may sleep here,” and he gestures into the corner, where there’s a foam pad Jensen hadn’t even noticed. His stomach drops. “Or, you may sleep here,” Mr. Morgan finishes, gesturing at the bed. “At my feet.” 

Looking more closely, Jensen realizes he’s gesturing at the white blanket at the foot of the bed. It takes him a moment to speak through the numbness of his surprise and dismay. “Yes, Sir,” he says quietly.

Mr. Morgan grips the back of his neck firmly and gives a squeeze. “Good boy.”

Jensen swallows hard.

* * *

Jensen sleeps at the foot of the bed, curled up under a blanket Mr. Morgan gave him before he stripped naked and crawled under the covers. He hovers at the edge, unsure if it will disturb Mr. Morgan if he shifts or moves up too far.

Over breakfast, he takes a sip of coffee, opens his mouth to speak and then closes it.

Mr. Morgan doesn’t look up from what he’s reading. “Did you need something, Jensen?”

“Yes. Yes, Sir. I was going to, ah...take a shower today.”

“Okay. You can use the bathroom off the living room or the one in the suite. Either is available for your use as required.”

“Yes, thank you, Sir. I thought maybe, did you want to take the collar?”

Mr. Morgan looks up and then pointedly down at Jensen’s chest. “Come to me when you’re ready to shower. I’ll be in the den.”

Jensen nods, heart-rate spiking again. He picks at his button down absently and then nods. He’s not exactly sure what Mr. Morgan means. He _thinks_ he knows. He’s terrified of being wrong.

He’s terrified of being right.

He strips down slowly in the bathroom off the living room - the one closest to the den, the shortest distance to travel. He hesitates with his thumbs in the band of his boxers. But this is what he signed up for. This is his payment, and he wants to show his willingness. He wants to show Mr. Morgan that he isn’t all talk.

He fights to keep his shoulders back and head up as he crosses the huge living room and moves across the hallway to the den. Cliff is in the kitchen but doesn’t even look up as Jensen passes by, just continues to efficiently clean up the breakfast dishes. Jensen makes a note not to let that happen again. At the very least he can help with dishes. Cliff makes a mean cup of coffee, but Jensen’s fairly sure he’s here to be a bodyguard, and he’d much rather that Mr. Morgan is protected over his coffee cup.

Jensen stands at the door for a moment, undecided, before stepping in and over to the side of Mr. Morgan’s chair. He kneels.

It takes a very long few moments for Mr. Morgan to turn to him, and neither of them say a word as Mr. Morgan unlocks and unbuckles the collar, and even after just twelve hours, it feels odd to have it off.

“Thank you, Jensen,” Mr Morgan says quietly. He places a hand on Jensen’s head and it feels like a blessing. Jensen’s skin prickles and warms, and his cock starts to fill, even with the slight chill. 

“When you’re done, please come directly here, and bring a towel.”

Jensen stands slowly, not knowing whether he wants Mr. Morgan to see his interest or not. He moves away as smoothly as he can, skin tingling, and in the shower he finds it impossible not think about Mr. Morgan’s hand tightening in his hair, pulling him in, unzipping his pants and forcing his cock into Jensen’s mouth.

He moves across the hall, still dripping wet, with a folded towel in hand, shivering but stubbornly adhering to the order he’s been given.

Mr. Morgan doesn’t let him wait this time. He shakes out the towel and uses it carefully, clinically, on Jensen’s hair, carefully attends to his neck and throat, pats across every inch of his shoulder and chest, grasps each arm and slides the towel down, bicep to the tip of his middle finger. Then he comes back to Jensen’s chest, down to his abdomen, his waist. He gestures for Jensen to stand, and is similarly thorough with his ass—between his cheeks, behind his balls, and then his cock, now half hard, his balls, then moving far too quickly to thighs, calves and feet, which he has Jensen prop up between his spread legs.

Just when Jensen thinks he’s going to spontaneously combust, Mr. Morgan gestures for him to kneel again, and the collar is buckled and locked efficiently back in place.

“It’s important that you be thoroughly dry,” Mr Morgan explains, two fingers resting on Jensen’s shoulder. “So the collar doesn’t chafe.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jensen says, voice cracking slightly.

Mr. Morgan gives him the barest flash of a smile, and Jensen is nearly overcome with the urge to lean in, to offer himself completely.

He doesn’t. First, he needs to show Mr. Morgan how much he can contribute. He needs to prove himself worthy of the attention he seeks.

* * *

The first time he goes into town, he tries to avoid the people he knows. He doesn’t want to be just another of Mr. Morgan’s conquests. He doesn’t want that side eye, the way people will look away from him when they see the collar—the way he’s seen others avoided and whispered about.

But finally there’s no way around it, and he makes his way in and wanders for a half hour before he makes his way to the restaurant. 

He’s come early on purpose, avoiding Josh and Kenzie for now. Just until he gets comfortable with it. Until he can see someone staring at him and not blush. They’re going to be worried for him. He has to show them that he’s fine, that he’s confident in his decision.

“Hey, brother,” Ty greets, tossing some pasta in a pan and then turning to plate it. 

To his credit, he only loses his flow for a minute, and then he’s back in it, sliding the pasta carefully on and then dotting the plate with basil oil.

He puts the plate up and rings the bell to let the server know it’s ready before turning back to Jensen.

“Guess you won’t be coming back to work anytime soon, huh, Jen?”

Jensen nods, feeling his face flush despite every attempt to suppress it. “No, I’ve got some other things going on.” he feels hotter as he knows exactly what Ty must think. What everyone thinks when they see Mr. Morgan’s collar. And he’s not even reaping the benefits of that assumption.

Ty’s smile fades slightly. “I understand. You all right?”

Jensen smiles at that. It settles something inside him. He knows his family will be upset but they’ll understand. Just like Ty. “Yeah, I’m really good. Promise.”

* * *

“Oh, baby,” his mom says softly, and he can see the tears gather in her eyes. She reaches out to touch the collar and then pulls back. “I didn’t get a grant, did I?’

“Mom, _mom!_ It’s not like that, okay? It’s fine. I wanted this. I wanted to help, and he’s been good to me. To _us_.”

She hugs him in silence and he holds her until her body stops shuddering, pretends he doesn’t know that she’s fighting not to cry. He swallows down the lump in his throat.

“Are you staying for dinner?” she finally asks, turning away swiftly.

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it! Can I help?”

“Oh, honey,” she says softly. Then she catches herself. “Why don’t you scrub some potatoes, I’ll scallop them.”

They’re his favorite, and it breaks his heart because he knows she’s trying to say thank you, and there’s no way he can explain that she doesn’t have to. Not ever. “Yeah,” he says instead. “Sounds perfect.”

The rest of the family is subdued when they get in—his mom must have let them know somehow. He wonders if they’re going to do this uncomfortable dance all evening. 

“Is..is the new job going well?” Kenzie asks after dinner is served in silence.

“It is,” Jensen tells her honestly. “I’m still getting a feel for it, but it’s good. I think it’s going to work out, Kenz. You don’t have to worry.”

She nods and looks back at her plate. “Can you come back for dinner sometimes?”

He smiles. “Yeah, absolutely.” He wants to quip about it just being a job, but they all know it’s not true, and he’s not sure he could get it past his lips. “As long as you make me some of that chocolate chip ice cream.”

She grins and rolls her eyes, and suddenly the atmosphere is relaxed. “Yeah, I guess. Jeez. You’d think you’re the queen or something.”

Jensen makes a face at her and she laughs, and slowly conversation starts back up, and it almost feels normal.

A year of this. He can do that. No problem.

* * *

It takes a few days to successfully get up before Mr. Morgan. The man gets up _early_. Apparently, running an empire requires beating the sun.

But, finally, Jensen is able to sneak away at 4:45 am, down to the kitchen before Mr. Morgan. He finds Cliff there, just bringing in the paper and starting the coffee.

“Can I help?” Jensen asks after a minute. “I think...maybe I can do some of this for you?”

Cliff cocks an eyebrow. “You want my job, kid?”

Jensen shakes his head. “What? No! I mean...this isn’t really your job, is it? I thought...if i did this, and cleaned up, maybe you could just...do the protection part easier?”

“Stereotyping, aren’t you?”

Jensen stammers for a moment and then Cliff grins. 

“You’re a good kid. Let me show you how Mr. Morgan likes it.”

Jensen sighs in relief and watches Cliff as he reviews the timing, the water, the different roasts and brews for different days, and he studies like he’s learning his dad’s recipes all over again.

“Got it?” Cliff asks, and Jensen nods.

“How about you?” Jensen asks.

“Me?”

Jensen looks up. “How do you take your coffee?”

Cliff smiles and ruffles his hair. “Black like my heart, kid.” He pauses a moment, and his face goes serious. “He’s right, you know. He got real lucky with you.”

Jensen’s insides leap and he wants to ask what Cliff means, but then he hears Mr. Morgan on the stairs and just mumbles, “Thanks,” before he pours the cup and adds milk, holding it out just as Mr. Morgan steps through the entryway.

His expression changes for a moment, from that soft, vague smile that he wears as a default, to something broad and surprised, with dimples. “Jensen.” He takes the cup, fingers stroking over Jensen’s as he does, and takes a sip without ever breaking eye contact.

“Quick learner,” he murmurs. “Called that, didn’t I?”

Jensen feels himself flushing, fights not to lower his head, lower himself to his knees. “Yes, Sir,” he says uncertainly.

Mr. Morgan’s hand is hot on his shoulder, index finger burning just under the collar, and Jensen forgets to breathe as they look at each other. Finally, Mr. Morgan winks and then goes to take a seat at the table, breaking the spell.

Cliff is already gone, so Jensen pours himself a cup and goes to join Mr. Morgan at the table, as he has all week. It’s starting to feel like home now. Now that he’s part of it. Now that he’s caring for it.

* * *

Jensen finds work in the garden—hard work that makes him sweat, covers him in dirt and scratches. It makes him feel alive and useful and it also serves the purpose he’s trying not to think about—making him _offensively_ filthy. It’s late enough in the day that Mr. Morgan will be wearing his robe and his silk lounge pants. Every once in a while, Jensen sees enough to know that he doesn’t wear a shirt under the robe. And to be touched by him when Jensen is naked, when Mr. Morgan is wearing silk, is soft with dusk and a glass of whiskey… Jensen shivers.

He takes care of all the cuttings, putting them in the newest compost pile before he heads back inside. He puts his clothes in the hamper and then makes his way to the den where Mr. Morgan spends his evenings.

He goes to his knees and waits, and Mr. Morgan smiles down at him. “Hard at work today, I see. You’re going to take over the entire grounds at this rate, Jensen.”

“Sorry, Sir,” he breathes.

Mr. Morgan laughs softly. “Are you?” He takes the collar off and turns it critically in his large hands. “You’ll need to clean this when you come back,” he says.

Jensen nods once, and then Mr. Morgan turns away, setting the collar to the side. 

Jensen goes to shower, scrubbing every inch of himself pink and clean. He brushes his teeth before he returns to the den, dripping water on the carpet.

Mr. Morgan towels him off slowly. He’s always thorough, but Jensen hopes he’s not imagining that he’s taking more time today.

Jensen is painfully hard by the time Mr. Morgan is done and gestures him back to his knees.

He hands Jensen the collar and a cloth and then turns back to his desk—to his whiskey and his book.

The cloth smells warm and clean, and Jensen rubs the collar carefully, bringing it back to it’s warm shine. He polishes the buckle as well and then sits with his hands on his thighs and waits.

Mr Morgan turns back after just a few seconds. His voice is soft and intimate. “You work so hard for me, Jensen. What do you think I should do about that?”

Jensen keeps his breathing steady, tries not to betray the way his heart is pounding in his ears. “Whatever you think, Sir.”

“Because you’re mine?” Mr Morgan asks in a low rumble. 

Jensen can’t quite hide the way he gasps. “Yes, Sir.” The words come out low, thick on his tongue. “Because I’m yours.”

Mr. Morgan shifts forward and spreads his legs. “Come here,” he says softly, and Jensen shuffles forward, the carpet against his knees. He’s just shifting to one side, eyes half closed, hping to feel the silk over Mr. Morgan’s thigh, when Mr. Morgan taps his arm and Jensen’s eyes snap wide. 

“The collar,” he prompts, and Jensen flushes and hands it over with the polishing cloth. 

“Look at that glow,” Mr. Morgan says, taking his time as he fastens it back in place and clicks the padlock on. “Are you that attentive to everything you set your mind to?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jensen breathes. He’s close enough to see the shine of the low lamp on Mr. Morgan’s pants, the shadow between his legs that highlights a long shape against his thigh. 

Mr. Morgan reaches down and adjusts himself, the firm shape of him curved up and pressing out, covered in black silk. “Do you think you’d be capable of helping with this?” 

Jensen nods, unable to look away. “I’d be honored, Sir.”

The silence is deafening as Jensen waits, unsure if another command is coming. 

“Show me,” Mr. Morgan says finally. 

Jensen lets out a shuddering breath, losing control for a moment at that final confirmation.

He nuzzles gently against the man’s silk clad thigh, gentle, just breathing through the fabric and letting it slide against his cheek, his lips, pulling it so it can give Mr. Morgan that same sensation. He moves slowly, wanting to show Mr. Morgan how attentive he can be, wanting to prove himself with no room for doubt. He’s been taught to make a good first impression and it all feels like training for this moment.

He’s unprepared for how much he needs this. How much he wants to be here, how much he _needs_ Mr. Morgan to trust him. To reward him.

At last, Jensen reaches the hard length pressing into the silk. He breathes warm through the cloth, is gratified to see Mr. Morgan’s hands tighten on the arms of the chair, to hear the slightest waver in his calm breaths. 

Jensen takes his time. He’s not teasing but he wants to give Mr. Morgan everything. He wants to build this into something he’ll never forget.

He mouths over the erection, tonguing through the fabric. He keeps his hands on his thighs, just as he always does when he kneels for Mr. Morgan. His own erection bobs and aches with his careful movements, but he doesn’t touch himself. This is service, and it isn’t for him. Not until Mr. Morgan says so.

Slowly, Mr. Morgan slumps down in the chair and Jensen is able to reach up, untie the robe with his teeth and then nose his way to the soft hair at the top of the silk pants. He flushes immediately hot, shivers with the sensation against his lips, his cheeks, his nose. The smell is warm, a slight musk. Clean, just the result of a day’s work, and Jensen longs for more. He uses his teeth to pull the pants down. Mr. Morgan lifts his hips, helps shimmy them down, and Jensen’s nose is suddenly buried in neatly trimmed curls, cheek against the hard length of Mr. Morgan’s cock. 

He’s overcome, suddenly, with a feeling of intense gratitude. He kisses carefully, worshipfully, in the curls, at the crease of each thigh, and then up that firm silk length that he’s finally ready to address in earnest. He licks carefully, softly at first, listening to every subtle change in Mr. Morgan’s breath, listening for his reactions and adjusting as he goes. Here, harder with his tongue, a little suction, then, lower, long licks, firm and slow. 

By the time he finally takes the cock in his mouth, he has a good sense of what Mr. Morgan likes. He moves up and down slowly, pressing his tongue to the flesh just under the head and rolling it there, and then moving up and down, spreading saliva to ease his way as he pushes himself slowly to take more and more, until he’s moving gently down that last inch, back and forth, and then up again at a languid pace until Mr. Morgan pushes forward. He takes the cue and speeds up a little bit, gives more attention and more pressure as he backs off and then moves down until he can swallow the thick head. He keeps going, almost meditative, responding to the way Mr. Morgan moves, jumps, presses into his mouth, how his cock pulses and swells as Jensen moves. He speeds up again just a little bit more and works his mouth, jaw aching, over and over the most sensitive spot, over and over, hearing the breath over him go harsh, and then a hand gentle in his hair and a strangled sound as there’s one last pulse and then come is flooding his mouth and he’s swallowing it, trying not to choke on the strange taste of it, bitter and dry somehow, sitting oddly in the back of his mouth.

He licks Mr. Morgan clean of his saliva before he looks up.

“Look at you,” Mr. Morgan says, sounding awed and tired. It fills Jensen with pride. “You’re a natural at this. Have you had a lot of cocks in your mouth, Jensen?”

Jensen flushes. He doesn't know if it’s a good thing or not, to have done this before. But Mr. Morgan knows. He always knows everything. “Yes, Sir. A few.”

Mr. Morgan strokes his cheek. “Well, I’m very lucky to be the recipient of all that experience. Have you had someone inside you before?” He looks down and it’s impossible to misunderstand him.

“No, Sir.”

“Will I be the first?”

Jensen shivers, tries to keep his voice steady, but he has a feeling it betrays his eagerness even so. “I would like that, Sir.”

“Come here, Jensen.”

Jensen stands slowly and then moves in to sit on Mr. Morgan’s lap, straddling his legs, his flaccid cock, the open silk of his robe.

“Good boy,” Mr. Morgan murmurs. He reaches over to the desk and comes back with lube, spreading his legs and forcing Jensen’s legs open with them.

He places a hand on Jensen’s chest and rubs slow circles across to his shoulders, down his stomach, lighting a fire as he goes. “Does this feel good, Jensen?” Mr. Morgan whispers.

“Y-yes, Sir.”

“Do you want more?”

Jensen whimpers. “Want what you want, Sir.”

“My good boy. I want to make you come. Nothing on the robe, okay?” A warm chuckle. “It was a gift.”

“I-”

Mr. Morgan strokes him without warning and he groans and presses forward mindlessly, and then Mr. Morgan’s hand comes underneath him, grazing his balls where they’re tight against his body, and his fingers brush Jensen’s ass.

“Hold onto me,” Mr Morgan says, and Jensen grabs his shoulders as a finger breaches him and the steady strokes on his cock continue. 

“Sir,” Jensen breathes. “_Sir_.”

“Whenever you feel it, Jensen. Just let go.”

Another finger stretches him, makes him gasp with the sharp pain of it, and then something changes, the angle of the stroke, and he’s shaking very suddenly, and Mr. Morgan speeds up on his cock and Jensen just manages to get one hand down in time to cover himself and keep from dirtying the robe as Mr. Morgan strokes and strokes and Jensen feels the seizing, over and over, the explosion pressed out of him by the fingers stroking inside his body, pulling it out of him with masterful strokes over his cock.

At last, Mr. Morgan lets him go and he slumps forward. Mr Morgan pulls him in and kisses him on each temple. “You’re beautiful when you let go, Jensen. I can’t wait to make you do that again.”

Jensen whimpers and nods. “Yes, Sir,” he agrees.

Mr. Morgan’s hands move to the buckle of the collar. “I think you need another shower.”

Jensen smiles softly. “Yes, Sir.”

* * *

Jensen expects things to move quickly after that, but they move...differently.

That night, the sleeping arrangements are the same, but Mr. Morgan kisses his forehead before he climbs into his nest at the foot of the bed.

The next morning, he gets up early and fixes Mr. Morgan’s coffee, and then brings his own to the table but Mr. Morgan shifts, looking at Jensen and spreading his legs in what Jensen can only assume is invitation. Jensen lets his eyes flicker back and forth, something like fear roiling in his stomach. He wants to be whatever Mr. Morgan wants, but he didn’t realize that performing on the kitchen floor would be part of it. Even so, the idea of Mr. Morgan losing control again in his mouth, pressing forward into him like he can’t get enough...it’s enough to make Jensen willing.

Mr. Morgan smiles a small, secret smile, and then Jensen takes a sip of his coffee and moves around and kneels between his legs. He unzips the suit pants and pulls Mr. Morgan’s hard cock out and goes to work.

“Watch the suit,” is all Mr. Morgan says, but after he finishes and Jensen is cleaning him with his tongue, he pets Jensen’s hair and smooths a thumb across his cheek. “Good boy,” he says. “So good.” And it’s all completely worthwhile.

When Mr. Morgan gets home from the office, Jensen follows him into his den and kneels.

“Did you finish yourself off this morning?” Mr Morgan asks.

“No, Sir. I didn’t—you didn’t say I could.”

Mr. Morgan tangles fingers in his hair and pulls him to his feet, and Jensen whines at the pain of it, skin tingling and cock filling.

There’s a brief, terrible moment where Jensen’s afraid he’s done something wrong, but Mr. Morgan’s expression is tender, hungry, possessive. His voice is soft. “No, I didn’t, did I? Take your clothes off.”

This is it, Jensen’s sure. He’s finally earned Mr. Morgan inside him. But instead, Mr. Morgan works him open with his fingers again, jerks him off and thrusts fingers back inside him after he’s come until Jensen cries and his poor body shudders with it, trying to come again and squirm away at the same time. It feels incredible. Like he’s been pushed to his limits, like he doesn’t belong in his body anymore.

That night, Mr. Morgan holds him under the blue silk bed cover and he wonders if he’s being rewarded or punished with all this sudden care and attention.

* * *

It’s a week later that Mr. Morgan gestures to his side at the breakfast table and waits for Jensen to kneel. Typically, Jensen would be seated between his legs, taking care of him before the day begins. Today, Mr. Morgan turns to him and speaks.

“I have a big meeting today, Jensen,” he begins.

Jensen’s not sure what to say. He’d sort of assumed there were big meetings most days. “Yes, Sir?”

“Some people have been coming in and trying to intimidate people under my protection. It’s important that I resolve this quickly.”

Jensen nods, still unsure what it has to do with him.

“Having power over people is how I get things done. How I demonstrate that power changes from meeting to meeting, group to group. Sometimes, by showing how loyal my people are, I can show my power without having to hurt anyone. Do you understand?”

Jensen understands power. He’s still not sure what it has to do with him. “What can I do, Sir?” he asks after some thought.

“Come with me to this meeting. Serve me. Show them how good you are for me. Cliff will be there, too, providing some additional...insight.”

It’s a request, but it’s not one Jensen can refuse. Then Mr. Morgan’s hand strokes his hair and he doesn’t want to. “Of course, Sir,” Jensen breathes, and he lets his head fall onto Mr. Morgan’s thigh, rests there as Mr. Morgan strokes through his hair and traces the line of his cheek, the top edge of his collar.

“You’re a very special boy,” Mr. Morgan tells him softly.

He thrills at the praise. “For you, Sir,” he says softly, and Mr. Morgan hums a soft affirmative.

* * *

Jensen wears a tank top to the meeting, and some low slung pants, his collar prominently on display. He walks behind Mr. Morgan and then kneels beside him as three other men file in. When Mr. Morgan spreads his legs, Jensen goes to work, stomach roiling and face flushed. He uses his tongue to start, but Mr. Morgan tugs his hair in warning and he stops. He’s there to show that Mr. Morgan can ask anything of him, and he’ll do it.

He doesn’t know how far he’ll have to go. He sits with Mr. Morgan’s half hard cock in his mouth, softening slowly to something pliant and vulnerable in his mouth, and he waits and listens and strains to feel any miniscule muscle shift or noise that might indicate he’s needed for something else. 

He’s known for a long time that he wanted to belong to this man. Knew even when it was officially a bad idea. Even when it was the farthest thing from possible. But he’d never imagined what lengths he would go to until now. If Mr. Morgan orders him to strip down, to take all the men here...he’ll do it. This is where he belongs.

He closes his eyes, still attentive to every sound and shift of muscle in Mr. Morgan’s body. He rests his cheek lightly against Mr. Morgan’s thigh, and he waits.

It feels like hours before the three men leave, having agreed to Mr. Morgan’s terms. Cliff sees them out, and Mr. Morgan pulls Jensen back slowly and massages his jaw with his thumbs.

“You did very well,” he says. “I think we should go home and I’ll have Mark cook tonight. I want to reward you for your good work today.”

Jensen aches. His back, his knees, his jaw, his arms—muscles he hadn’t even known he’d had before today ache. But none of it matters, because Mr. Morgan is pleased. “Thank you, Sir,” he says, and follows Mr. Morgan out.

After dinner, Mr. Morgan takes him to bed. He rubs Jensen’s body down, every bruise from the floor, every ache in his jaw, then his neck, the inside of his shoulder blades. It is a bliss Jensen has never experienced. Some sort of boneless pleasure of care he’s never even known existed.

Mr. Morgan turns his over carefully, so he’s lying on his back. “You were so good for me today, Jensen.” His slick finger teases over Jensen’s ass, slips inside easily.

“Yes, Sir,” Jensen breathes.

“You’ve been so patient, haven’t you?” 

He adds another finger and Jensen forces himself to be still, not to be greedy.

“I want this to be special for you, I want you to know how special you are.” Mr. Morgan leans down and sucks Jensen’s cock and everything resembling a thought dissolves in the onslaught of sensation.

“_Oh_,” is all Jensen manages, scrambling at the sheets. “Oh, God, _oh_…” He’s so overwhelmed he doesn’t realize until Mr. Morgan is already sliding into him that it’s finally _happening._

“There you are, beautiful boy,” Mr. Morgan breathes softly, shifting his huge cock inside him slowly, slowly, so all he feels is slow friction, fullness, an overwhemling sense of _belonging_. 

Jensen can’t speak. He shakes, he wraps his legs around Mr. Morgan’s waist. He whines. He’s fairly certain he _whines._

“Shhhh, sweet boy,” Mr. Morgan soothes him. “Shhh. You feel so good, you feel amazing, you’re amazing, I’ve got you, I’ve got you now,” and it’s still so slow. Gentle. Deep enough that Jensen feels it in his bones. It’s nothing like he had imagined it would be. It’s better. And yes, Mr. Morgan has him. And Jensen hopes he never lets go.

Mr. Morgan kisses him softly, rolls his hips over and over. “Touch yourself,” he whispers. “I want to feel when you come.”

Jensen looks up and Mr. Morgan is watching him. He’s captured there. Their eyes never leave each other as Jensen strokes himself between their bodies. Mr. Morgan picks up speed just a little and the angle is perfect, Jensen can’t hold back. He comes with a hoarse cry and Mr. Morgan kisses him again and then presses inside him so deep he feels like they’re part of one another. There’s a deep pulsing inside him and he presses into it, chasing that sensation and making needy sounds he can’t control.

_“Beautiful boy.”_

They lie together for a long time, Mr. Morgan’s lips lingering under Jensen’s ear. 

At last Jensen starts to get up but Mr. Morgan pulls him down. “Let me,” he says. “Let me take care of you tonight.” 

He brings a washcloth from the bathroom and cleans them up and then he pulls Jensen close and curls tightly around him.

Jensen has never slept better in his life.

* * *

Anxiety weighs on Jensen as the months fly by. The more time passes, the more Jensen is sure he doesn’t want to leave. His mother’s doing well. The restaurant is thriving. They don’t need him there.

He knows Mr. Morgan is fond of him, but _how_ fond, he’s not sure. Mr. Morgan’s had people in his service like this before, Jensen knows. And he’s never kept any of them. Why would Jensen be any different? Even if, sometimes, he feels like Mr. Morgan watches him with real affection in his eyes. Even if there are moments when Mr. Morgan traces the freckles on his shoulders and bends to kiss them and tells him he’s perfect.

Perfect, maybe. But for how long?

They talk, now. Mr. Morgan runs a lot of businesses and he seems genuinely interested in Jensen’s experience at the restaurant—working with the cooks there, the delivery people, the waitstaff and the customers. He asks pointed questions about how Jensen balanced the books, how they kept people coming back, how they kept things fresh and new so that customers were surprised.

Jensen feels valued. He’d never realized that it would be possible to be owned by someone and also respected. He hates thinking about going back to his life full time. Giving up the freedom of serving. A piece of him is embedded here, and he’ll lose it if he goes.

But it isn’t really up to him, is it?

* * *

They’re lying in bed, a bit breathless.

“Do you…” Jensen pauses as Mr. Morgan traces over his collarbone with long fingers.

“Jensen?”

“Do you think about July?”

The fingers pause, then resume. “What about it?”

Jensen can’t look at him. “Do you think about after?” He can barely get the words out.

“I try not to, honestly.” 

Jensen looks over at him. “Me too.”

“It’ll be good for you to get back to your family, your life,” Mr. Morgan tells him with a sigh. “You’re a young man. You have a lot ahead of you.”

“So, you _want_ me to go?”

“Jensen.” His voice is so reasonable Jensen almost breaks. “I want what’s best for you.”

Jensen sneaks a look at Mr. Morgan’s face. He looks resolute and distant. Like they’re already gone from each other’s lives. “What about you?”

Mr Morgan smiles wistfully. “I’ve gotten more than I could ever have thought to ask for.”

Jensen lets it go. He can feel the tears rising and he swallows them down resolutely.

* * *

He talks to Cliff the next day.

Cliff refuses to help him. 

He has new reasons every day. New arguments and angles. Every time he sees him—in the morning, or outside the den, or preparing the car for the day—Jensen tries again. 

Three weeks later, Cliff glares at him. “You’re a stubborn pain in the ass, you know that?”

Jensen smiles. “Does that mean you’ll help me?”

Cliff rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

* * *

Cliff insists on a Friday.

Jensen works in the garden again, fighting through the bushes in the sun just to keep himself moving, keep himself from thinking or anticipating.

He goes to Mr. Morgan that evening, kneeling to have the collar off so he can shower, and then he goes back to the den after, dripping wet, and Mr. Morgan dries him carefully.

He stands before the collar can be replaced.

Mr. Morgan goes instantly rigid, his face full of fury. “You have a month left, Jensen. You choose_ now_ to test me?”

The displeasure hits Jensen hard. Mr. Morgan has never had cause to reprimand him and it’s a physical knot under his sternum. 

He presses on, lowering his eyes. “Sir, I have never asked for anything. Never, in all this time. I have served you faithfully for eleven months, and I have done my best to serve you well. Please. Trust me.”

Mr. Morgan watches him, eyes narrow, lips pursed. Finally he nods. “You’re still mine, Jensen.”

“Yes, Sir. Will you follow me?” He waits for the curt nod and then leads the way to the bedroom they share.

The smell hits him as he walks through the door—charcoal and heat, and Cliff is there attending a small kiln. A bench has been set at the foot of the bed, padded with leather and fitted with heavy straps that end in massive buckles.

Jensen, still naked after his shower, kneels down in front of Mr. Morgan and holds his hands behind his back. “Sir, you told me once you wanted to test my conviction, but that the brand, the tattoo - those were only for people who swore themselves to you for life. Do you…” he chokes, forces himself to go on. “I will. I do. I’ll serve you as long as you’ll have me.” He looks up and Mr. Morgan’s face is twisted, jaw clamped. Jensen has never seen him like this. It could be fury. He hopes it isn’t. “If you want me, Sir, please. I want your mark.”

Mr Morgan doesn’t move for a very long moment. Long enough that Jensen starts to worry that he will, in fact, have to walk away in a month. Or sooner.

“Jensen,” Mr. Morgan says softly. A tear falls. Then another. “Lie down. Face up.”

Cliff takes a step forward but Mr. Morgan shakes his head. He buckles Jensen down tightly at the wrists and across the biceps. At the ankles, thighs and across his waist.

“You need to hold very still,” Mr Morgan says quietly. He shrugs out of his silk robe and hangs it carefully in the closet. “The timing is very important. If the brand isn’t hot enough, it'll rip your skin.”

Jensen nods, heart in his throat. He knows this is what he wants but still, he’s terrified. 

“Jensen, are you sure?” Mr. Morgan asks, straddling his waist.

“Yes, Sir,” Jensen says. His voice doesn’t waver.

Cliff moves the small kiln to the side of the bench and then clasps his huge hands down on Jensen’s shoulders, pressing him into the leather.

It happens quickly—Jensen barely sees the movement as Mr. Morgan pulls the brand from the kiln and presses the cherry red metal to his chest, above his left nipple.

Jensen screams. He told himself he’d be good, he’d hold still, but he can’t, the pain is worse than anything he’d imagined. He’s sure he’s dying, he’s coming apart and then the brand is gone and he’s crying and the pain is so intense he can feel it slicing through his muscles and he’s still trying to escape.

Mr. Morgan is kissing him—gentle kisses along his cheeks, his hairline, his eyelids, and he can’t stop crying, whining, it still burns, it still feels like he’s being burned alive, his skin crawls with it, he pulls against the restraints, “Please,” he begs, “please.”

“Just a minute, just a minute, Jen,” Mr. Morgan repeats softly. “You’re doing so well, you’re so good, so perfect, just a minute, give it a minute.”

It eases slowly. The burns slides into something that is almost bearable. He has some control of his limbs, finally, and Mr. Morgan unbuckles him with shaking hands. Jensen doesn’t mention it. His arms are shaking, too.

“Was it worth it?” Mr. Morgan asks, and if Jensen didn’t know any better, he’d say it sounds like regret. Fear.

“Can I stay?” Jensen asks, voice hoarse from screaming.

Mr Morgan barks a short laugh. “I have never deserved you,” he says in answer. “Of course you can. As if I could stop you.”

“Would you want to?” His entire body burns in time with his pulse.

Mr. Morgan swallows. “No, Jensen. Never.”

Jensen smiles, his whole body tight with pain. “Totally worth it,” he breathes, suddenly exhausted. “Take me to bed? Sir?”

Mr. Morgan helps him up carefully. “Of course.”


End file.
